


The Punk and the Painter

by orphan_account



Series: Questioning My Life Choices [1]
Category: Punk Rock RPF, Sex Pistols (Band), The Joy of Painting (TV)
Genre: 1970's, Art, England - Freeform, I am going to hell for this, I am so sorry, London, M/M, Opposites Attract, Punk, can this be considered parody?, this is for a friend, this is not meant to be taken seriously, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: England...1976....One fateful day. Not many know of Bob Ross' punk side. What happened years before his TV debut, when he met none other than...Sid Vicious. As they say, opposites attract.





	The Punk and the Painter

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking to a friend earlier today and long story short, our conversation ended up at Bob/Sid fanfiction, and he told me to write it. I am so sorry. Please don't take this seriously, I'm not very fond of Sid anyway.

London. 1970's. A city that can only be described as gray, from the cramped apartments to the smog obscuring the street. Cars screeched and wailed, a few shouts along the lines of "Oi!" echoed, buses screeched to a halt. Clouds loomed, promising rain. It was far from the bright, peaceful landscapes Bob Ross depicted in his paintings. Perhaps I should share them with the world, he thought. Those who live in conditions like these could use something pleasant to look at for a change. It would brighten their day.

The sky only grew darker with the passage of time. Bob checked his watch. Nearly time to set off for the Sex Pistols gig. He turned to the mirror and spiked up his usually frizzy hair, then pulled on his leather boots and jacket over his ripped-up t-shirt. Fashion is like a work of art, and a person is the canvas. Today he was a punk.

If London was loud, this was ear-splitting. Screaming from the audience, screaming from the front man, crashing drums, sloppy bass – the clashing colors came together beautifully, in a certain sense of the word. It wasn’t poetry nor fine painting, but it was art none the less. The bright, clashing, in-your-face art one would never expect was enjoyable to the easy-going painter.  
There were countless things that could have caught Bob’s attention. Perhaps the sheer number of safety pins or the sheer amount of people intensely hopping up and down in place, but it was neither. Bob was fixated on a certain dark-haired, sneering bass player upon the stage, strumming out muddy melodies with his strong fingers. Absolutely fixated. Suddenly he was struck with mountains of inspiration: A dark, misty forest, with a full moon obscured by clouds. Yes, how beautiful.

Eventually, however, the spectacle was finished, and Rotten concluded it with some obscene shout at the audience. How fascinating was this sort of performance! Everyone shuffled outside, some lighting cigarettes, some heading off to bars. Cigarettes and bars weren’t particularly Bob’s thing, and so he chose to linger around for a bit, lost in thought. In his daze, he found himself running into, literally, something firm and slightly damp. He looked up to see the face of none other than Sid Vicious, shirtless and sweating from the stage lights.

“Oi! Watch where the ‘ell you’re goin’!”

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

What a happy little accident.

Sid stared, bemused. Nobody in that edgy sort of get-up said “Sorry, didn’t see you there”, especially genuinely. Who did this bloke think he was, and why was it almost…Sid couldn’t find the word (Not unusual).

“Who the bloody devil are you, anyway?” He asked.

Bob smiled, “Bob Ross. And you are-“

“If you don’t know who I am,” Sid cut him off, “You don’t belong with this lot.” A half, twisted smile played at his lips.

“Sid Vicious.”

Crawling out from the cracks in the sidewalk, the cracks in the walls, the cracks in the windows, was a force akin to magnetism, pulling these two opposites together. In the following silence, it only grew stronger. It pulled them closer, closer, Sid despite himself. The optimistic American painter and the nihilistic British punk.

Hidden around a dark corner, two people found themselves so close they could be considered one. Leather jackets discarded, spiked hair disheveled: Bob Ross and Sid Vicious. Let's be decent and leave them alone for now.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> I really am sorry, but perhaps you got/will get a laugh out of it.


End file.
